


This is Not A Love Song

by flashindie



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Gym Class Heroes
Genre: Boys Will Be Boys, Depression, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:00:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashindie/pseuds/flashindie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Travis and Pete share a bed and then a week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Not A Love Song

So, they share a bed.

It’s not like; it’s not a big deal or anything. This isn’t some high school romance – puberty was eons ago, even if it doesn’t always feel like it – and Travis doesn’t think either of them are afraid of contact, of cooties or waking up in each others skin. As far as natural goes, this is too easy for Travis who has about as much trouble sleeping alone as Pete has sleeping at all. 

None of this is an issue on the road, when he sleeps long and sprawling between Matt and Disashi, sweat and grime filling the spaces between them just enough to be familiar.

It’s not an issue then, but the holidays snuck up on him this year, and he found himself alone in a too big apartment with a million people on speed dial who were all too far away. 

Sharing a bed though - it’s not a big deal coz he likes Pete, and Pete likes him and when Travis opens the door one morning to Pete with a frown and bags beneath his eyes to match the ones in either hand, he just pushes the door open wide enough to let him in. 

Travis won’t ask questions. If Pete had needed a confidant, had needed late night comfort and desperate words, well, to be honest, Travis doesn’t think he’s first on the list for that shit.

*

“This could be a nursery rhyme, a fucking fairy tale.”

Pete quirks a brow, flashes a half-smile that isn’t quite genuine and not quite pretend. “Yeah?”

“Three bags, dude,” Travis says, and he grins, tugs his cap a little further down his face and leans back on the sofa. “One straw, one sticks, one bricks.”

Pete rolls his eyes, but he’s nothing if not quick. “One hot, one cold, one just right?”

Travis laughs, honest and braying and he likes Pete, all big, dumb eyes and words that are only ever truly biting when Patrick sings them. “Fuck, if there’s porridge in those things you better not leave them on my bed.”

Pete grins, and its easy this time, it looks right, not stunted or anything, and he pulls himself off the sofa and over into Travis’ room. 

The door is left wide open, and Travis can see Pete, all 98lbs of him, pile into his bed, bury beneath sheets and pillows, tunnel below the surface. Travis heaves off the sofa and wanders close behind, all lazy, languid movements. By the time he gets to the side of the bed, Pete’s staring up through a crack in the sheets and maybe it’s fucked, but Pete’s wide eyes are all the invitation Travis will ever need. He pulls back the covers, and slides in beneath the blankets.

Pete flashes his stupid horse smile (the one that’s more honest than he’ll ever admit to), before rolling over, face to the wall and Travis just grins, folds his arms behind his head and let’s sleep pull at his eyelids until he can’t keep them apart.

*

If sleep catches him by surprise, three am leaps out from behind a bush with wild eyes and a machete, and Travis wakes with a start to a thigh between his legs and a head against his chest.

He wakes up to a mouthful of hair and a breath down his neck and thinks that it’s times like this he’s glad he stopped believing in monsters under the bed when he was thirteen.

Travis fidgets, tucks two hands beneath Pete’s arms and pulls him up higher until he has the room to wrap two loose arms around Pete’s back. 

Pete snuffles, and Travis falls asleep.

*

Pete’s a fucking awful cook – like, really, really bad – but Travis wakes up to the smell of burnt toast and undercooked eggs and appreciates the sentiment anyway. He moans, stretches long arms over his head and lanky legs over the end of the bed and only manages to pull himself out after ten minutes has flickered by on his watch.

By the time Travis lumbers in, the kitchens a mess and Travis finds it hard to care with Pete standing in the middle of it all, bare-foot and shirtless, egg yolk on his fingers and flour (flour?) on his chest.

“Fuck, dude,” Travis says, and he wanders across, lets his own sock-clad feet skid against the tiles. He leans over Pete and gropes around the counter for a piece of mutilated toast.

Pete fidgets beneath him, finally turns into Travis and says, “Fuck off, I’m an amazing chef - this shit is _gourmet_.”

Travis just laughs, kisses the top of Pete’s head and grabs another piece of toast.

“Star Wars?” Travis asks, and Pete just grins.

*

Sometimes Travis thinks Pete’s magic, elf, fairy, wizard, whatever, there’s something there that makes things happen against all logic.

Like, seriously, Travis just went to piss and he comes back to find Hemingway in his living room. “The fuck?”

Pete grins, leans into the sofa and pulls Hemmy into his lap. He flashes Travis a wide, toothy grin. “Joe just dropped him off. He’d have stayed too, but he was going out with Marie.”

Travis purses his lips, tilts his head, and Hemmy does the same, stares back at Travis with those stupid dog eyes that only almost match Pete’s.

“Dude, if he shits on the floor, guess who’s cleaning it up?”

Pete pouts, but it’s quickly replaced with a smile and he turns Hemmy’s face towards him and squishes his cheeks. “Fuck off; he hasn’t taken a dump in the house for like, two weeks. I trained him good.”

“Lying fuck, you didn’t train him at all.” If Travis were a little more anal, he might care about Hemmy’s dirty paws on the sofa and the fact that that dog? Yeah, he pisses on everything, but Travis isn’t and when Pete gets distracted by something shiny, he figures he’ll probably steal the thing because yeah, Travis is sorta attached to the fucker.

*

There’s noise filtering in from the living room and Travis blinks blearily at the digital clock beside his bed. The numbers bleed 2:48am and Travis groans, rubs long fingers over sleep-ridden eyes and tries to peer through the gap made by the half-open door.

The TV’s on, and he can see Pete’s still form, sitting upright on the sofa, Hemmy’s butt falling off the edge. Travis thinks that if he listens close enough from here, he can hear Pete breathing, heavy and shallow, can see shaking fingers and fluttering eyelashes and maybe one day Travis will learn to respect privacy when it’s needed, but not right now. He heaves himself out of bed and heads over into the living room.

He grabs the TV remote off the arm of the chair and collapses into the sofa beside Pete. Maybe it’s wilful ignorance, but he tries not to take note of the far-away look in Pete’s dark eyes.

“What are we watching?”

And it’s instant, Pete’s back to Earth with a jump and an intake of breath through teeth that sounds like the first. 

“Fuck if I know.”

Pete’s still quiet and Travis doesn’t like it, isn’t keen on _this_ Pete – wonders how the hell Patrick copes.

The silence bites at his toes and he flicks channel-to-channel to break it, to fight off the tumbleweed and its minutes, hours, _days_ before Pete smiles, as honest as it’ll ever be and says, “Hey, hey, just like, mute one of the soaps. We can voice it.”

Travis just grins.

*

If you asked either of them, they wouldn’t be able to tell you how they ended up doing this.

“Finished,” Pete says, and he grins, holds up a cardboard guitar for Travis to see; all tissue box body, toilet-roll neck and twine for strings. 

“Fuck,” Travis replies, “That’s pretty good.”

Pete grins, nods, “I’ll give it to Patrick for our next album. Give us a new sound. Soon all the fucking scene kids will be using ‘em.”

Travis laughs and Pete digs a hand into one of the tubs of glitter, sprinkles it over the body of the guitar. 

“You done?”

Travis waves a hand, says, “Almost. Y’know, I heard a rumour once that patience was a virtue.”

“Patience is a virtue but speed is a God-given gift. Hurry the fuck up.”

Travis sighs dramatically, tugs his cap to the side and purses his lips. “Fine, fucker,” and he holds up a cardboard picture frame, painted green with the words _Travis + Pete 4evah_ written across the top in glitter ink. 

Pete’s smile spills across his face and Travis is just grinning in response, talking out of his ass and laughing too hard at his own jokes when Pete climbs onto the table. He crawls over, gets glitter on his hands and the knees of his jeans and Travis opens his mouth to make a joke about pixie dust when Pete kisses him.

It’s not sexy, not desperate or aimless, but it’s enough to make Travis thread fingers through Pete’s short hair. It’s enough for them both to keep going. Quietly intense and Pete is leaning into him, wrapping arms around Travis’ neck and bites his lower lip until Travis opens his mouth and they kiss until they’re both breathless.

Pete rocks back on his heels and Travis leans back in the chair. 

“Fuck,” Travis says. “You’re good at that.”

Pete grins. “So,” he says. “What’s for lunch?”

*

Lunch? Ice-cream and chips.

Seriously.

Pete eats three bowls full before leaning back into the sofa, breathing out hard enough that he looks four-months pregnant. 

“Dude,” Pete says, and he’s pulled up his shirt, is eyeing the bloat. “Dude, I feel like such a chick right now.”

Travis gives him the once-over and quirks an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t make-out with you if you were a chick.”

Pete laughs aloud, brash and sudden and the sound echoes through Travis’ skull, makes him grin and sprawl out over the sofa. 

“Why the fuck not?”

“No tits.”

Pete rolls his eyes and leans over enough to shove at Travis’ shoulder. “Fuck you, I have a fantastic ass.”

“Didn’t say anything about your ass, said you had no tits.”

Pete just laughs again and Travis rolls over on top of him, reaches a hand down Pete’s back to grab a handful of ass before saying, “Yeah, good ass.” 

Pete rolls his eyes, but he leans up anyway to press his lips against Travis’. He sighs, flutters his lashes and says, “Oh, _Travie_ ,” in the highest voice he can manage.

*

“Okay,” Pete says, “Okay, worst blow job ever.”

Travis crinkles his nose up, purses his lips. “There’s no such thing.”

Pete quirks a brow. “Really?”

“If I get off it’s no hair off my back, y’know? I’m a guy, I don’t need anything above and behind a good set of lips to orgasm.”

Pete laughs, “But c’mon, there’s always one you regret ever happening.”

Travis shrugs, contemplating. “High school, me and this one chick like, we got off together behind the bins. The stink was pretty fucking bad, man. Almost turned me off.”

“Almost?”

Travis grins, “I was 17, pretty hard to stifle the boner, man.”

Pete laughs aloud, and Travis says, “You?”

A sigh escapes Pete’s lips and Travis can’t quite figure out if it’s staged or not. He leans back into the sofa cushions and pulls Hemingway into his lap. “Give or receive?”

“Either.” And Pete just moves forward enough to brush his lips against Travis’ ear. “I don’t blow and tell.”

*

Travis isn’t sure where the week goes, but it drifts past like clouds during storm season and Pete makes no move to leave and Travis makes no move to get rid of him.

Company, it’s nice.

*

“What the fuck are you doing?” Travis mumbles, coz hey, he’d been comfortable, sprawled out on the floor with a joint in hand (in lung) and Pete laughs above him.

“Fucking around,” Pete says, and he pulls Travis’ shirt over his head, throws it into the corner of the room before planting two icy hands onto his chest. 

“Jesus,” and Travis bucks a little, tries to throw Pete off him, but fuck, the guy’s small, but he’s strong, and his thighs are tight around Travis’s waist, firm, and suddenly Pete’s got a tube of red finger-paint and Travis has no idea where the fuck it came from. 

“Stay still,” Pete commands and right, Travis thinks, okay. In seconds, Pete’s got the tube open and is pouring out the paint in a dollop on the space above Travis’ heart. Pete’s got his fingers there, is smearing the paint over his chest, etching out patterns and spirals over the bare skin.

“What are you doing?” Travis asks again, but it’s a murmur this time, coz Pete’s fingers are light, ticklish in all the right ways, and maybe it’s the pot, but there’s something gentle here, almost intimate in the way Pete, he doesn’t take his eyes off Travis’ face. Off his lips and eyes and nose.

Pete leans back onto Travis’ waist, reaches a hand behind himself to undo Travis’ belt and unzip his fly. He moves forward just enough to kiss Travis, quick and light before shimmying down his body far enough to pull down his jeans and breath over his crotch.

Travis thrusts up and it’s not, it’s not surprising at all that he’s rock hard beneath Pete’s fingers and he motions for Pete to keep going. “You gonna blow me?”

Pete’s hands are still red with paint and he pulls down Travis’ boxers before pressing either hand over his hipbones, leaving red fingerprints. He looks up, quirks a grin. “If you’re lucky.”

The smile inches over Travis’ face and he leans back into the floorboards. “I’m feelin’ it,” and suddenly Pete’s mouth is over him, surrounding him, and Travis swears, bucks up and in and reaches his own two hands down to thread through Pete’s cropped hair.

“Fuck,” he moans, and Pete starts to suck, lick and bite and there are stars in Travis’ eyes, words behind his tongue and Pete’s looking up through his fringe and Travis swears again, moans between his teeth.

Pete’s head bobs, and the sounds he makes are fucking pornographic, slurps and moans that leave Travis hot in all the right places and maybe it’s the pot or fuck, maybe it’s Pete, the way he takes it all in, scrapes his teeth down Travis’ cock, but he’s coming way too quickly. Spilling down Pete’s throat and the guy, fuck, he swallows, and Travis shakes in the aftershock, glow, whatever, whatever this is.

Pete laughs a little, stares up at Travis with half-lidded eyes and dry humps Travis’ leg until he pulls him up and shoves a hand down the front of his too-tight jeans. Pete’s not laughing then, and Travis counts it as a victory when Pete shudders and pushes his head into Travis’ neck. 

Travis wraps a hand around Pete’s cock and jerks him off, slow and steady and high and breathy until Pete comes, spilling through his jeans and Travis can feel it drip between his fingers. 

“Fuck,” he says, and Pete nods, all quaky fingers and deep breaths that echo through Travis’ skull.

“Fuck,” Pete agrees.

*

Travis wakes up to a foot in the belly, “Ngh,” he grabs a hold of it and doesn’t even open an eye as Pete struggles.

Pete gives up pretty quick, caves, and Travis grins, pulls Pete’s foot above his belly and around his waist until Pete’s legs are wrapped around him like a second skin. Pete doesn’t resist, leans in and nuzzles Travis’ neck instead. 

“I’m hungry.”

Travis flings an arm up, points towards the kitchen. “Fridge, oven, cookbook. Go fetch.”

He can almost hear Pete pout. “Will you cook?”

“Fuck no.”

Silence settles and it’s enough that Travis thinks maybe (maybe) Pete’s given up, but after a few minutes there’s a, “Buy me dinner and I’ll put out,” and Travis has to stifle a laugh.

“Careful, man” he says instead, mock-serious. “People might start to think you’re a slut.”

“Nah, just sexually generous.”

They order Chinese, coz they’re both fucking lazy and Pete has the money, and when they go to bed that night Pete doesn’t even try to stay on his side of the bed.

*

Travis wakes up to morning time and Pete’s big, dark eyes. He blinks blearily, feels the sun on the back of his neck through the cracks in the blinds and tries to move, think, feel, but Pete’s quiet, and his fingers are light, tracing words onto his back that Travis can’t spell, can’t figure out.

Pete, he’s quiet right now, all gentle smile and doe eyes and Travis rolls over enough to reach, to press his lips to either eyelid, to kiss a trail from cheek to mouth and when he hits ruby lips, Pete kisses back, soft and intimate in a way that Travis finds hard to pinpoint through sleep-bleary head.

But maybe its sensuality, maybe its chick-flick love at its best, not serious, not desperate, just pleasant and a different sort of passionate. Pete kisses his chin, his neck and suddenly it’s not anymore.

It’s not light and airy, not pastel colours, coz suddenly Pete’s lips aren’t teasing, aren’t gentle, and Travis has Pete’s tongue in his mouth, and teeth biting at his lips and Travis’ hands run races down Pete’s bare back on their own accord, slip down the back of his boxers to grab a handful of ass.

This, it’s all conflicting, slow and fast, lazy and organised, awkward and sensual and Travis can’t pinpoint anything, can’t think in labels or fuck, even words. Pete’s lips are on his neck, sucking, biting, kissing, whatever, they’re moving there, talking and Travis can’t even listen right now, is painfully hard and desperate in a way he hasn’t been since he was fifteen, coz, the thing is, Pete’s gorgeous, Pete is millions of eyelashes and miles of flawless complexion and right now Pete is Travis’, and Travis is Pete’s and that makes sense and he’s not sure why.

Everything about their relationship has been fluke.

Pete’s pulled off Travis’ boxers though, and Travis has pulled off Pete’s and Travis isn’t sure where it’s come from, but Pete’s pulled out lube and a condom, is ripping open the packet and pulling it down over Travis’ cock. Pete kisses him again, a peck, before grabbing one of Travis’ hands, squirting on a gratuitous amount of lube and Travis surges forward, rolls them over and pushes Pete beneath him. He presses his lips to Pete, is mumbling out words he doesn’t recognise, phrases he won’t remember and suddenly he’s got a finger up Pete’s ass and this guy, Pete, he’s writhing, a squirming body beneath him and Travis slips in another finger before either of them can stop it.

Pete grins, shuffles and thrusts himself down on to Travis’ fingers until he finds that spot himself and the moan, it’s all telling. Travis smiles, rubs long fingers against the prostate until Pete’s sweating out words, crying out and it’s the pleases that almost do Travis in.

Pete’s pushed forward though, rolled Travis onto his back, and Jesus, the bastard’s fast, is straddling Travis’s hip, positioning himself over Travis’ cock and sliding himself down the length. Travis almost blacks out, crashes his head back onto the pillow and wraps both hands either side of Pete’s narrow hips, frames the bartskull between either one and Jesus, he thinks, because his hands are almost long enough to engulf him.

Pete’s breathing is stilted, hoarse and throaty and it’s all Travis can do not to come right there. Pete’s so tight and when he finally starts to move, push himself up, fuck himself on Travis’ dick, Travis thinks he could die.

Travis is moaning, desperate, but Pete’s slow and the smirk is blatant, all-telling and all-consuming and Travis wonders if Pete has a kink for falling apart, but this, it’s still languid, it’s easy in all the best ways and the motion, the speed, fuck, the pleasure it’s Travis’ favourite sort of high.

When Pete lifts himself this time, comes back down, Travis thrusts up, pushes in and Pete moans, swears, he rolls forward, forehead on Travis’ waist and Travis wraps around a hand to grope Pete’s ass, thrust up again until Pete gets the strength to sit back up. He’s smiling, both of them are and Pete picks up speed, goes and goes, fucks himself until he comes, spills all over Travis’ belly and at that point, Travis rolls them over, spins Pete’s small frame beneath him and goes, thrusts fast and desperate and needy until he falls over the edge, collapses on top of Pete and they’re both finding their footing again, breathing deep and full until Pete laughs, puts two hands in Travis’ hair and pulls him down for a kiss. 

It’s sloppy and long, sex-stupid and Travis reckons he could do this forever. The afterglow’s set in, leaves them both dopey and it’s not a come down as much as it is a relief.

*

“So,” Travis says, and it’s been like, it’s been an hour. “Are we talking about it?”

Travis doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but Pete’s laugh is hoarse and honest, braying on the air between them. “Do you want to?”

And okay, Travis thinks, maybe, definitely… not really. He purses his lips and stares over at Pete who’s all sex-stupid smiles and half-lidded eyes, the sort of beautiful that belongs in art house photographs and indie flicks. No, he doesn’t want to talk about it, but he thinks he could write an album for Pete’s smile and Pete’s skin, lips, eyes.

“You,” Pete mumbles, and he rolls over, leans into Travis’ side, wraps an arm tight around his waist and kisses his chin. “Are one of my favourite people in the world and no, I don’t know what that means either.”

Travis laughs, and the sound reverberates through his chest, shakes Pete’s tiny frame and Travis puts a hand on top of Pete’s head, presses his lips to the hairline and just, he smiles. “Good,” he says, coz the thing is, the thing is this isn’t anything, not really, but it isn’t nothing either.


End file.
